Once Upon a Historical Christmas Read online

  With so many folk bearing witness, though, she mustn’t upset her sire. If she didn’t meet his expectations, he could—and would—deprive her of food again, if not at Branton Keep then when she got home. Panic fluttered within her, but she forced it down.

  Holden’s brows rose. He clearly expected something from her.

  Oh! She hadn’t yet formally acknowledged him. “I am honored to meet you as well, Lord Kendall.” She curtsied again for good measure.

  “Call me Holden.”

  “Aye, as you—”

  “Say it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Say my name.”

  Swallowing hard, she wondered why he would insist on such, and in such a brusque tone. “Holden,” she murmured.

  “Your given name is Mary.”

  Surprise flickered—she hadn’t told him her name—but she nodded.

  “How old are you, Mary?”

  “Thirteen, milord.”

  “Are you betrothed?”

  Astonishment whipped through her, rendering her momentarily speechless.

  Muffled snickering carried from down the hall, no doubt from the table where Holden’s friends sat. Indignation welled, but she resolved to remain reserved and polite, as she’d been taught.

  “I ask again,” Holden said, more firmly. “Are you betrothed?”

  “Nay, milord.”

  “Good.”

  His determined expression made her pulse quicken with both anticipation and dread.

  Her sire made a sound of disapproval. “Lord Kendall—”

  “Mary,” Holden cut in, “as lord of Branton Keep, I order you to kiss me. On the mouth.”

  Roars and delighted giggles rippled through the hall.

  Kiss him on the mouth? A lord and lady kissing in front of witnesses could be considered a binding promise of marriage.

  Wood scraped on stone; her father had pushed his chair back and risen. “Wait just one moment. I will not—”

  “I am the Lord of Misrule.” Holden glanced at Lord de Lanceau. “Do I not have the authority to command a kiss from her?”

  An awful feeing of entrapment gripped Mary.

  After a silence, de Lanceau said: “You are, indeed, entitled to such requests.”

  Holden grinned, while Mary’s heart sank. She couldn’t kiss him. She simply couldn’t.

  What was she going to do?

  “With respect, milord, a kiss can be considered a promise of betrothal.” Her father’s voice crackled with fury. “I will not allow this lad to kiss my daughter then try later to claim her hand in marriage, all because of some Christmas tradition.”

  Lord Rowell shook his head and set down his wine. “Under the circumstances, we can all agree the kiss is only a bit of fun—not any kind of commitment. ’Twill be as if they kissed under mistletoe, aye?”

  Mary fought the cry welling within her. The men spoke as though she wasn’t even there. Why did no one ever care to ask what she wanted?

  How tired she was of being hungry and anxious, of losing sleep, and of being helpless to determine her own life.

  Triumph etched Holden’s features. “I will have your kiss now, milady.”

  “Will you?” The words slipped out, impossible to stop.

  Holden blinked, obviously surprised by her retort. Mary felt her father’s, Lord de Lanceau’s, and Lord Rowell’s startled gazes upon her. Muttering carried from the hall, as well as chortles.

  The laughter clearly bothered Holden, for his expression hardened. “You will kiss me, Mary, or there will be consequences.”

  She could not, would not, be forced to kiss him. Whatever the consequences, they couldn’t be worse than what her sire had done to her.

  “Lady Westbrook,” Holden commanded.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay?”

  Despite her trembling, she lifted her chin a fraction higher. “I will not kiss you.”

  A Knight's Redemption

  Catherine Kean

  Chapter Two

  I will not kiss you.

  Holden gritted his teeth while embarrassment and anger warred within him. How dare Mary say such?

  How dare she make a mockery of him and ruin the glory to which he was entitled?

  Lord Westbrook smirked, clearly pleased by his daughter’s refusal. Folk in the hall were laughing even louder than before; they found the lady’s refusal delightfully entertaining. His fellow squires, and likely the men-at-arms as well, would tease him later that he couldn’t get kissed even when he’d ordered a woman to kiss him.

  He would not stand for it. His demands as Lord of Misrule were to be obeyed. If he let her get away with refusing him, the incident could become one of the tales told around the garrison fire every Christmastime. Folk would mock his name, laugh at how he, the reigning Lord of Misrule, had lost to a woman.

  Holden scowled. “You cannot deny me, milady.”

  Mary dropped her gaze. “I must.”

  “Must?” The word suggested honor was involved. Was she betrothed after all, even though she’d said she wasn’t? She might have entered into a secret arrangement, unknown to even her father. However, that seemed unlikely.

  Hellfire, Holden wasn’t asking much of her. Just a kiss.

  Judging by how nervous she seemed, she wanted to bolt. Good. If he continued to pressure her, she’d have no choice but to yield. “I command you—”

  “I will still refuse, milord.”

  Lord Westbrook snorted, as though unsuccessful at stifling a laugh. Were the other lords also laughing at Holden’s predicament? What did de Lanceau think of Holden’s failure to win Mary’s kiss? His lordship’s opinion of him meant a great deal to Holden.

  Frustration became an ache in Holden’s chest. How tempted he was to haul Mary into his arms and kiss her, whether she wanted it or not. Done with enough gallant flair, he could have the whole room cheering for him again.

  As though attuned to his thoughts, she gestured across the hall. “There are countless other women you could ask for a kiss.”

  “I do not want kisses from them.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Only me?”

  “Only you.”

  Her expression registered shock and the faintest trace of pleasure. Her slender hand flitted to her throat, flattened there.

  “I would ask, milady, your reasons for disobeying me.”

  Her shoulders rose and fell on another heaved breath. “I hardly know you.”

  “’Tis not a reason. A kiss does not require knowing one another, only the meeting of mouths.”

  “I respectfully disagree, milord.”

  “Explain.”

  “A kiss….” She bit down on her bottom lip.

  “A kiss,” he coaxed.

  “…is special. Sacred.”

  Holden ignored the chortles of folk nearby.

  “Who told you such?” he asked, rather curious now.

  “I have heard chansons. I have also read the old tales.”

  So had he. His favorites were the stories of the long-ago Celtic king named Arthur and his loyal knights.

  “A kiss on the mouth,” she continued, “is a pledge of true love.”

  Across the hall, several men laughed. “For God’s sake, just kiss her,” Penley yelled, to a round of bawdy whistling.

  “Since we are not courting, and we are most certainly not in love, I cannot kiss you. Not on the lips, as you ordered.”

  Part of Holden found her words endearing; another part of him seethed. She was clearly winning this battle of words. He must do more to show her he was in charge.

  “While I respect what you have told me,” he said, “a lord’s order still must be honored over one’s own beliefs.”

  She swallowed hard. “I should not have to kiss you if I do not want to.”

  “Still, she disobeys,” a man shouted.

  “She should be punished,” another yelled.

  Her worried gaze flicked out into the hall.

  Holden would give her one last chance. “Kiss me, as I ordered,” he said sternly.

  Glancing back at him, she shook her head.

  “Very well. For your disobedience, I sentence you to the dungeon.”

  ***

  The dungeon?

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Mary had never been in a dungeon before. Never, in her life, had she expected to. Dungeons were dark, dank, foul places where the worst criminals were imprisoned, not gently-bred ladies.

  Intertwined with her shock, though, was a deep sense of having been wronged. She hadn’t committed a crime that warranted a stay in the dungeon. Others bearing witness surely agreed.

  The folk in the hall, though, seemed to approve of Holden’s decision. They bellowed and cheered, their faces flushed from drink.

  Her head spun, and she fought the very real threat of a faint by stumbling forward and gripping the polished edge of the table. Holden caught her arm, but when she glanced up at him, she didn’t see compassion in his eyes, only determination. His strong, unyielding grip heated her skin through her silk sleeve.

  She caught snatches of her father’s voice and Lord de Lanceau’s, but couldn’t hear what was being said over the noise of the throng.

  “You cannot imprison me!” she cried.

  Holden leaned in, his voice rumbling close to her ear. “I can.”

  “’Tis wrong! I am not a criminal.” Turning her head, she tried to catch her father’s attention, but Lord Rowell stood in the way.

  “Geoffrey,” Lady de Lanceau said, as the cacophony dimmed a bit. “You must not allow this.”

  Please, Mary silently pleaded. Do not let Holden carry out his threat.

  Lord de Lanceau shook his head. “As I just told Lord Westbrook, I will not challenge Holden’s decision.” r />
  His wife frowned. “For Heaven’s—”

  “If I do, ’twill set a precedent.” When Lady de Lanceau scowled, his mouth curved in a faint smile. “When we were younger, I imprisoned you. Things did not turn out so badly, did they?”

  A flush colored his wife’s cheeks. “The circumstances were quite different.”

  “True, but I trust Holden. He is a good lad. Lady Westbrook will not come to harm or be imprisoned for long. Right?” his lordship said to Holden.

  Holden nodded.

  Mary moaned. “Please.” She struggled and yanked her arm back, but couldn’t break free of Holden’s grip.

  “Guards,” he yelled.

  Her stomach clenched as two broad-shouldered men-at-arms approached the dais.

  “Follow us to the dungeon,” Holden ordered. He pulled her to a walk.

  Castle folk swarmed toward the dais. Fear coursed through her, but Holden ordered the guards to keep the crowd back. She could barely keep up with his brisk strides as he hauled her down from the dais and through the hall. “Penley,” he called, and a young man hurried over from the table of squires and fell in alongside them.

  “You are very commanding. You make a good lord,” Penley said, grinning. Darting ahead, he shouted for folk to keep out of the way.

  Holden pulled Mary down the forebuilding’s uneven stone steps, through the doorway at the bottom, and out into the crisp afternoon sunlight. The smell of smoke, likely from a fire somewhere on the castle grounds, tinged the afternoon breeze.

  Holden tugged Mary toward the dungeon’s wooden door.

  Shivering, she glared at his back. “Why are you being so horrible?”

  He halted, so suddenly she almost ran into him. Facing her, he said, “Am I? All you had to do was kiss me.”

  “Not difficult,” Penley muttered from beside Holden.

  Even the two men-at-arms, following a short distance behind, looked unsympathetic.

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “I explained why—”

  “You humiliated me, in front of my friends and my lord,” Holden growled.

  “That is why you insisted on the dungeon?”

  A muscle leapt in his cheek. “I did warn you of consequences.”

  The icy wind stirred the thin fabric of her gown. She hadn’t even been allowed to fetch her cloak. “What about my wellbeing? Have you once considered that?”

  His dark brows rose.

  “There may be rats in the dungeon.”

  “There may well be,” he agreed.

  “What if I am bitten by one?”

  “You would need to see a healer. There is one here at the keep.”

  “What if I catch some awful disease from the rat? A pestilence that cannot be cured?”

  Holden sighed. “’Tis unlikely.”

  Her mind raced, while her shivers strengthened. “’Tis the middle of winter. I might catch a chill in the dungeon. I could fall very ill with a cough and fever and…and….”

  “I am not changing my mind, milady.”

  “You are willing to endanger my life, then?” Helplessness threatened to send her into a swoon.

  Holden’s gaze softened the barest fraction. “Will you return to the hall and kiss me, as I ordered of you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then you have no one to blame for your misfortune, milady, but yourself.”

  ***

  Holden pulled Mary down the stone steps into the dirt-floored dungeon, their footfalls and the rustle of her gown echoing in the underground chamber. Penley and the men-at-arms followed, but he’d told the guards that once inside, they were to wait by the stairs.

  The odors of mildewed stone and fetid soil tainted the cold air. Torches flickered in iron holders secured to the dungeon walls, but did little to dispel the murky darkness.

  All of the cells were empty. In the spirit of goodwill to be found at Christmas, de Lanceau had freed the two men—both of them husbands and fathers—who’d been arrested days ago for stealing sows from a neighboring farmer, after the men had returned the livestock they’d taken and vowed they wouldn’t steal again.

  Despair still permeated the dungeon, though, as if the souls of prisoners past who hadn’t been fortunate enough to have been granted mercy haunted the shadows.

  Mary made a small sound of dismay, while Holden hauled her toward the isolated cell at the very back, the one reserved for the worst offenders. A little voice within Holden told him to reconsider, that he’d taught her enough of a lesson and should forgive her and take her back to the hall. But, another, more persuasive voice reminded him that she’d embarrassed him in front of people he respected. She deserved to be punished for what she’d done.

  Not that she’d suffer for long. He’d already decided to rescue her soon after shutting her in. He’d slip his own cloak around her shoulders to warm her, escort her to the hearth in the great hall, and hand her a mug of hot, spiced wine. Mayhap then, she’d be so grateful she’d agree to kiss him.

  “You are putting her in that cell?” Penley asked, from close behind Holden.

  “I am.”

  Penley whistled.

  Mary shuddered; he felt it through his fingers clamped around her arm. Was she going to plead for leniency?

  To his surprise, she didn’t say a word. As he slowed and opened the thick cell door that didn’t have a window, he sensed her struggling to rally her courage.

  Releasing her, he gestured inside the cell. “In you go.”

  Light from a nearby torch flickered over her. Her eyes glistened; in her expression, he saw misery and a plea for mercy.

  Remorse weighed upon him, but he mentally pushed the emotion aside.

  Her lips quivered. Was she going to yield?

  She walked into the inky darkness.

  He and Penley exchanged glances. Holden had expected to feel victorious, not unsettled and even guilty. Spurred by his discontent, he shoved the door closed. It shut with a booming thud, and he took the iron key from its peg on the wall and locked the door.

  As he returned the key to its holder, a draft swept over Holden’s ankles. Hurried footfalls sounded on the dungeon stairs.

  “Holden!”

  He recognized Selden’s voice. Was the squire going to berate Holden for locking Mary away? “What?” he called gruffly.

  “Lord de Lanceau has ordered us to the horses.”

  God’s blood. “Why—?”

  “Fire. In the town. Hurry!”

  ***

  Standing in the pitch-black cell, Mary hugged herself, crushing the sleeves of her silk gown with her fingers. The chilly air was growing even more frigid. The coldness seeped through the soles of her embroidered leather shoes into her feet and up into legs. Rubbing her arms, she fought not to dissolve into a sobbing mess.

  Holden would not return to find her with red, swollen eyes and a blotchy face. He’d unlock the door to see her waiting with ladylike poise, having remained brave and patient.

  Aye, you will show that arrogant knave.

  She shouldn’t have to endure her situation too much longer. In the hall, Holden had confirmed to Lord de Lanceau that she wouldn’t be imprisoned for long.

  So, any moment now, she should be freed.

  Aye.

  But, he’d left the dungeon. She hadn’t been able to clearly hear the exchange of words that had prompted him and the others to leave, but had heard them rush off. She’d almost cried out, asked them to release her, but Holden likely wouldn’t have heeded her anyway.

  How long ago that had been she couldn’t say. Since then, she’d heard only silence, apart from her own breathing, the clink of chains on the ground when she’d moved near the wall and her foot had bumped them…and the faint scratching noise that had come now and again from outside her door.

  Oh, how she longed to sit down. An unpleasant smell, however, wafted from the floor; an odor she didn’t dare ponder too closely. Sitting would also crease her gown and get it dirty. Her father would be upset, for ’twas the most expensive item of clothing she owned, and he’d paid the tailor extra to have it ready for her to wear to Branton Keep.

  Holden was going to let her out soon.

  Surely.

  The scratching noise came again. It sounded louder than before.

  What was it? A rodent?

  The ghost of a criminal who’d died in the dungeon?

  Oh, God.

  Her teeth chattered. Hugging herself tighter, she jumped up and down, her shoes tapping on the dirt floor. Eight, nine, ten—

  The scratching came from inside her cell. Something scurried across her foot.